Chapter 2
Thinking back, a heavy, stifling atmosphere had permeated the estate from the very moment she crossed the threshold.
The housemaids she passed were masks of stony indifference, and every ornament in the halls sat with mathematical precision. The curtains hung with a rigid, over-starched crispness, and the carpets met the baseboards at perfect right angles.
It was a brand of perfection so absolute it felt claustrophobic. Suspecting this environment was a direct reflection of the master’s own temperament, Jacqueline felt a flicker of nerves and forced a small, tentative smile.
Having just finished her curtsey, she offered a practiced social greeting.
“It is an honor to meet you, Lord Preston. I am Jacqueline Somerset. My dear friends call me Jackie.”
She didn’t explicitly invite him to use the nickname, but the suggestion was clear enough. She met his eyes with a warm, approachable gaze.
“Miss Somerset will be sufficient.”
“…Of course.”
Windsor’s eyes traveled slowly from her head to her toes, as if he were inspecting a piece of merchandise. Under the weight of his appraisal, Jacqueline instinctively straightened her spine and refined her stance.
His expressionless eyes seemed freezing at first glance, yet strangely, they didn’t offend her. Having spent years enduring the pitying or judgmental stares aimed at an “impoverished noblewoman,” she found Windsor’s sheer indifference almost a relief.
Her initial impression of Windsor Preston wasn’t quite as monstrous as the rumors suggested; he was more civil than she had anticipated. Nevertheless, she had no illusions that he would be an easy man to work for.
Finally, Windsor looked away. He gave a nod so minuscule it was nearly invisible. It took her a heartbeat to realize the gesture was one of approval.
“I was informed that you are the daughter of Lord Somerset.”
“I am.”
They were strangers to one another. The world of the aristocracy was remarkably insular—ordinarily, they would have crossed paths long ago—but timing had been against them. Windsor had made his debut into the ton just as Jacqueline was forced to retreat from it.
She felt a spark of tension, bracing for him to mention her father’s fatal accident. In her experience, any conversation involving “Lord Somerset” followed a predictable, grueling script.
It usually began with a hollow “How tragic,” and inevitably ended with, “I heard the debt collectors took everything—is it true you’re left with nothing?”
“I understand you were educated at the Bristol Girls’ Boarding School. Is that correct?”
The unexpected shift in topic caught her off guard. She hesitated, missing the beat for a prompt reply—her second social stumble of the meeting.
Under Windsor’s blunt, expectant stare, she gave a quick nod. His slate-gray eyes were contemplative, yet as cold as a winter sky.
Swallowing her nerves, Jacqueline composed her features and answered.
“That is correct, Lord Preston.”
“Continental history is a pillar of their curriculum—how did you fare in your studies?”
Jacqueline’s confusion deepened, but she didn’t dare remain silent under his piercing gaze.
Windsor Preston appeared to have zero interest in Jacqueline Somerset the person—the fallen socialite. Instead, he seemed focused entirely on her credentials.
“I passed my final examinations on the first try, so I would characterize my performance as quite strong.”
“And what of music? How many instruments do you play?”
“I am highly proficient in both piano and violin. I also have a working knowledge of the flute and cello.”
“Can you ride? Do you know how to handle a firearm?”
“I have never been taught to shoot, but I am an accomplished rider. I have been in the saddle since I was ten years old.”
At that, Windsor’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly. Jacqueline noticed the subtle movement, and her eyes sharped with sudden focus.
“‘Quite strong,’ ‘proficient,’ ‘accomplished.’ Personally, Miss Somerset, I have a preference for precise metrics over vague descriptors.”
“…I see. I shall keep that in mind.”
Jacqueline held her polite smile by sheer force of will, fearing that if she let it slip, her face would collapse into a scowl.
Windsor gave a curt nod and pressed on.
“Is your understanding of the arts adequate?”
“Certainly, Lord Preston. My knowledge of the fine arts is… quite profound.”
“Do you speak any foreign tongues?”
“I am fluent in both Slenian and Nortian.”
“Good. Benjamin’s previous tutor was instructing him in Nortian. It is vital he masters the language of our allies early on.”
With that, Windsor rose. His height was even more imposing when he stood; his broad shoulders and disciplined stride suggested a man caught between the worlds of the nobility and the military. Suddenly, his moniker echoed in her mind:
The Demon of the Black Fleet.
Jacqueline found herself staring at him, momentarily forgetting her manners. She remembered reading that demons were often more beautiful than angels—a necessary trait, perhaps, to ensnare the human heart in an instant.
In that regard, Windsor Preston was undeniably a demon.
Windsor fished a pocket watch from his coat. The lid opened with a crisp metallic click.
“Benjamin should be in his quarters reading at this hour. Follow me.”
“…Yes, my Lord.”
Flustered by his overwhelming presence, Jacqueline instinctively reached out her hand. Windsor, who had been about to walk past her, came to a halt.
His eyes dropped slowly to her extended hand, then rose back to her face.
The realization of her mistake hit her like a physical blow. She recoiled, pulling her hand back. She had acted on autopilot, assuming Windsor intended to escort her as a gentleman would.
But this wasn’t a ballroom, and Windsor was her employer, not her suitor.
“Shall we?”
Acting as though nothing had happened, Jacqueline marched ahead with a brisk step. Only when her back was turned to him did her face contort in embarrassment. She let out a silent, frustrated scream behind closed lips.
“Which way, Lord Preston?”
Stepping into the hallway, she turned with a graceful, detached air, as if she hadn’t just made a fool of herself.
“To the left.”
Windsor moved past her with efficient strides. Jacqueline exhaled a quiet sigh and fell in line behind him.
Good heavens—of all the times to forget myself!
She made a comical face at the back of his head.
Windsor walked with no wasted motion. Following him, Jacqueline found herself unconsciously mimicking his posture, straightening her back to match his rhythmic pace.
She felt a mounting pressure to be perfect—as flawless and rigid as the starched curtains and the precisely laid carpets.
Windsor stopped before one of several identical doors. He gave a sharp knock and pushed it open. Jacqueline stood on her toes, peering over his shoulder.
The room featured ivory walls, heavy timber furniture, and belongings arranged in obsessive order. It didn’t look like a nursery; it looked like the study of a joyless old man.
A young boy, sitting alone with a book, looked up slowly. This was Benjamin Preston.
The moment he saw Windsor, the boy scrambled to his feet, his face tightening with anxiety. The book he tried to set on the table slipped, clattering to the floor.
His wide eyes grew even larger before clouding with shame. He bit his lip, retrieved the book, and set it carefully on the table.
He’s only six, isn’t he?
Clad in shorts, white stockings, and suspenders, Benjamin looked far more somber and mature than a boy his age should. He gave Windsor a stiff, polite bow.
“Good afternoon, Uncle. I was finishing my reading.”
“This is Miss Jacqueline Somerset, whom I mentioned earlier today. She is your new governess. Greet her.”
Benjamin’s eyes shifted. Jacqueline stepped into the room, and when their gazes met, she couldn’t help but smile.
The boy was as darling as a character from a storybook—perhaps even cuter than Colin, her cherished teddy bear.
He had curls like red spun sugar and brown eyes that shone like polished gems. His cheeks were round and full, and a light dusting of freckles danced across his nose, visible only because she was looking closely.
Benjamin snapped his feet together and kept his hands pinned to his sides.
Before Jacqueline could even process his rigid stance, the boy spoke.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Somerset. I am Benjamin Preston. I look forward to learning from you.”
The greeting was impeccable. She could only imagine the grueling etiquette lessons Jeffrey Preston, or perhaps Windsor, had forced him to endure.
Jacqueline felt a wave of bewildered sadness wash over her.
She looked at his blank expression, his stiff limbs, and his guarded eyes, then turned back to Windsor.
“Is there a problem, Miss Somerset?”
His question was straightforward, but his flat delivery made it clear he was genuinely oblivious to any issue.
“No problem at all, Lord Preston.”
Shaking her head, Jacqueline stepped forward. She moved past Windsor and knelt on one knee so she was eye-level with Benjamin.
Though she felt Windsor’s cold gaze on her back, she ignored it. She whispered softly to the boy, “Hello, Benjamin. My name is Jacqueline Somerset, but you can call me Jackie. That’s what my friends call me.”
“This child is the future Marquess of Preston. It would be appropriate to maintain the proper formalities, Miss Somerset.”
The stern correction cut through the silence. For a brief second, Jacqueline and Benjamin locked eyes.
At the mention of his future title, Benjamin pulled his shoulders back, lifted his chin, and pressed his lips into a thin line—a miniature soldier on parade.
From an angle hidden from Windsor, Jacqueline made a ridiculous face, as if she’d just sucked on a bitter lemon. Benjamin didn’t even crack a smile.
How strange.
Usually, when she made that face, her schoolmates would forget their dignity and howl with laughter. Even her strictest teachers would soften their expressions and let her off with a slap on the wrist.
Blink. Blink.
Jacqueline blinked slowly, then rose with practiced poise.
“I shall keep that in mind, Lord Preston.”
“I am aware this is your first post as a governess. I expect a one-month curriculum draft on my desk before dinner tonight.”
“By tonight…?”
Jacqueline stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. Windsor’s tone remained dry.
“Is that a problem?”
She looked at Benjamin with a look of mock-distress, like a poor lamb being bullied by a lion.
Again, Benjamin remained stoic. Jacqueline turned back to the Marquess with a sheepish smile.
“No, it isn’t a problem. I will have the curriculum prepared and delivered to you before this evening’s meal.”
Windsor didn’t bother to reply; he simply gave a single nod and walked out. Only when the sound of his steady footsteps had finally vanished down the corridor did Jacqueline allow her shoulders to drop.
